


Smile Like a Gash

by unkissed



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Dark, Dark fic, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, If you were looking for something cute you’ve come to the wrong place, M/M, SnowBaz, Victim Blaming, but they love each other - Freeform, did i mention this is dark?, smut and gore, snowbaz sexy times, that ending tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 02:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16150757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: "You were laughing maniacally with blood smeared over your lips and your teeth.  Your smile was like a gash, cut across your face with the Sword of Mages.  I have never been more afraid of you."In which Simon and Baz finally explore their darkest desires... accidentally.This is a dark and dirty follow-up to "Long Walks in the Park", with a disturbing twist.





	Smile Like a Gash

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Long Walks In The Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919129) by [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed). 



> You wanted it? Here it is. Brace yourself. Consider this the continuation of "Long Walks in the Park". If you haven't read that one, please read it before "Smile Like a Gash".

BAZ

 

Stop acting like you don’t know exactly what you do to me, Simon Snow.  I’m on to you, arsehole.  Seduction is a subtle art when one does it skillfully.  I hate to break it to you, love – you are not subtle.

I’m not saying you lack skill, because… _fuck_.  The persistent tent in my trousers is a testament to your ability to make me desperate for you with just a _look_.  You’re bad with your words, but your eyes speak volumes. 

 _Crowley,_ those eyes… They glimmer with hunger when you’re fumbling with the buttons of my shirt in your haste to get me naked. They shine with rapture when you’re looking up at me from on your knees as you worship my cock with that pretty mouth. They darken to a predatory gleam when we fuck, inciting me to go deep enough to hurt you and push hard enough to break you. They brighten with adoration when you tell me that you love me as I make you come.

But I digress.

Here’s the thing, Snow – I see between the lines, and I know what you’re trying to do.  I will tell you right now, it’s not going to happen. I’m not a monster.  I don’t want to get into the habit of feeding on humans, least of all, a human with whom I’m in love.

You know I’d fucking lose my shit if I tasted a single drop of your blood.  I wouldn’t be able to stop tasting you until you were drained, or dead, or turned.  You either have a death wish, or an immortality wish.  Neither one would be as sexy as you fantasize it to be.

You think you’re being really cute when your tongue lingers inside my mouth when my fangs extend as we’re kissing hard.  I always pull away when that happens, but you insist on letting me feel the delightful softness of your tongue on my teeth, and it makes it hard to be careful. 

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fantasized about it at least once.  I’ve thought about the sensation of my teeth breaking your skin - the satisfying puncture, like breaking the caramelized surface of _crème brûlée_ , like rupturing a bubble wrap blister, like the first blissful slide of my cock, breaching your tight virgin arse. 

 _Bloody hell_ Snow, are you even aware of how it felt for me?  How I died in ecstasy the night we fucked for the first time, and how I thought I wouldn’t wake up the next day? How years of unrequited lust and shameful wanking had culminated in the most devastating pleasure?

No, you don’t know, Simon Snow, because you’re so fucking clueless sometimes.  You thought it was just casual sex to me, but it was my first time too, and I was already so in love with you. 

And when it was your turn to put yourself inside of me, I felt resentful that I hadn’t been your first. If I couldn’t be your first, then maybe I could be your best, so I let you push in a little too hastily.  I felt the dull ache of you inside me for days. It was fucking worth it.  I want to feel you inside me always – a physical memory of you.

 

You always insist that we face each other when we fuck.  I used to think that it was because you appreciated the greater intimacy that it afforded us.  The connection between our eyes affirmed that the connection between our bodies had meaning, rather than just a means of getting off. 

But sometimes you don’t even look at me.  I’ll be balls deep inside you and you’ll turn your head to the side and close your eyes. I used to think that it was because you were lost in ecstasy.  But now I see the game you’ve been playing.

You think that if you offer your pretty neck to me enough times that I’ll eventually give in to my urges and bite you.  But I have the iron will of the Pitch bloodline stitched into my genes, and we tend to die before surrender.

You think you can wear me down subtly, but I’m too smart for you.

You think that I don’t realize you’ve altered your personal hygiene preferences to optimize your palatability to vampires, but I’ve snooped around your bathroom and made deductions with Sherlock-like precision.

You use unscented soaps and unscented shaving cream and unscented deodorant and unscented laundry detergent so that the natural scent of your skin assaults my heightened senses, unencumbered by artificial perfumes.  You know that the carnal smell of your sweat, steeped in masculine pheromones, makes me ravenous.

It’s a positive feedback loop when we’re having sex.  The harder we fuck, the more you sweat, the more delicious you smell, the harder I fuck you, the more you sweat, the hungrier I get, the harder it becomes to resist your blood.  And you fucking _know_ this, you bastard.

 

I’m writing all of this down in a notebook.  Hopefully you’ll never have to read it.  If this notebook falls into your hands, it is only because I’ve done something horrible. This is written proof that it, whatever _it_ may be, is all your fault.

 

 

~//~

 

 

You’re well aware of how dead sexy you are when you’re angry enough to fight.   Which is why you only get into fights when I’m around to see it, even though you hardly need me for back up.

On a particularly reckless night, you got yourself into a right mess.  I’m fairly certain that it had been strategic. 

We were at a Normal dance club – a _gay_ Normal dance club.  There was enough testosterone and alcohol in the air to make me damn near suffocate.  It was overwhelming – the lights, the sounds, the bodies, the bass drum thrumming like a heart beat. 

“He’s looking at you,” you spoke into my ear, then gestured to the side with your chin.

There was a bloke dancing near us.  Maybe he was eying me.  Maybe he was eying you.  Either way, there was definitely some eye-fucking going on.

“You should dance with him,” you suggested. 

I knew you were aching for trouble when you smirked that devilish smirk of yours.  I’m so fucking besotted with you that I’d follow you anywhere into mischief, and you bloody knew it. 

I sauntered over to the guy as you headed for the bar.  He was handsome enough – muscle daddy type, which isn’t my type, but whatever.  He said he liked my shirt.  I told him it was Gucci.  He pretended to care.  “Wanna dance?” I asked him.  Mind you, I’m not accustomed to such informal dancing.  He nodded and started to move close.  I copied the undulating motions of his hips.

“You’re really hot. What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Barry,” I lied, just for the thrill of it.

He looked at me, perplexed. “You don’t seem like a _Barry_.”

“Call me whatever you like. Just don’t call me _maybe_ ,” I said.  He laughed.  He looked stupid when he laughed.  I didn’t bother asking his name.  I didn’t care.

I glanced over at the bar. You were gone.

Muscle Daddy started dancing closer – close enough that I could feel the outline of his dick on my thigh. I wanted to recoil.  This stranger had no right to be so close, even though everyone in the club was dancing just like this.

I found you again, watching us with mischief shining in your eyes.  And then I understood why you wanted me to lend myself to be dry fucked on the dance floor by a stranger.

“Easy there, mate. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet,” I told Muscle Daddy, as I put my hand on his shoulder to ease him off me.

You approached like a storm from behind him, with chaos gleaming darkly in your eyes and feigned jealousy furrowing your brow.  You tapped Muscle Daddy on his broad shoulder and said, “Dude, that’s my boyfriend. Back the fuck off.”

I knew it was an act, but I swooned anyway.  You’re so fucking hot when you’re aggressive.

“Sorry, mate. I didn’t know,” Muscle Daddy quickly conceded, “He asked me to dance.”

You wouldn’t let it go. “Not bloody likely,” you said.  You told Muscle Daddy that you saw him watching us.  You suspected he was waiting for you to go to the bar so he could make his move on me.

Muscle Daddy did not take lightly to being accused of stealing your boyfriend.  Some awful things came out of your mouth that I thought were unnecessarily crass, even for you. The two of you argued until it escalated to shoving. 

Then you got what you wanted.  Muscle Daddy punched you in the face.  Your mouth started bleeding.  I caught one whiff of copper, brine, and iron.  And I fucking lost it.

I covered my mouth as I gasped, not from the shock of you getting punched in the face, but from the horror of how fast my vampire teeth descended from my jaws.

I fled from the club with you right behind me, so fast that the bouncers didn’t even have time to kick you out for fighting. 

You were laughing maniacally with blood smeared over your lips and your teeth.  Your smile was like a gash, cut across your face with the Sword of Mages.  I have never been more afraid of you, Simon Snow.

You were still cackling when I pulled you into a dark alley and breathlessly called you an arsehole. 

“Why am I the arsehole? I’m the one who got punched,” you said, still playing stupid.

I shoved your shoulders into the brick wall with my hands and held you at arms length.  “Fucking look at what you do to me,” I lamented.

You stopped laughing, but you never stopped smiling.  You stared at me quietly under the sodium yellow light of the alley. Your lips were swollen and wet with crimson, mesmerizing me.  You reached out and cradled my jaw in your fingers, letting your thumb brush my upper lip to further expose my teeth.  I shied away from your touch as if it stung.

“Don’t be ashamed… I’m a monster too,” you said.  Your smile darkened, not that it was cheerful to begin with.

And then you licked your teeth.  What sane person does that?  Your tongue swept slowly over your incisors as you savored the taste of your own blood. You _sick fuck_.  You actually liked it.  Your eyes fluttered closed.  You smeared blood across your lips when you wiped them with the back of your hand. You looked so fucking pretty.

I went to pieces before I could catch myself.  Iron will - be damned.  I had your wrist in my firm grip before I could think of the consequences.  I licked the blood off your hand and you tasted like original sin.  We both moaned softly.  I shivered, though I could already feel your life on my tongue, making me hot. 

You pulled me toward you and kissed me hard, and I knew there was no turning back from this.  I licked every crease and crevice of your mouth, inside and out, with fiendish abandon.  It was sloppy and rude and horribly inelegant.  In my anxiousness, my teeth cut new hairline abrasions into your soft lips, and I kissed you raw.  I lapped up every drop of blood that was to be had, and it was _so fucking good,_ but it was not enough.

I shook like a crack addict. I felt like I’d been starving, even though I’d fed properly the previous night.  The desperation for blood, _human_ blood, _your_ blood, was stronger than it had ever been before.

I whimpered.  No words, just a wretched little sound, like that of a wounded creature.  I wanted you so badly, that it physically hurt to refrain from devouring you.  The effort made my stomach clench, which in turn made me feel hungry.

You folded your arms around me and you comforted me as one would a child.  “It’s okay… You’re okay.  Don’t cry.”

I hadn’t even realized that I was crying.

“I love you.  I want to give you everything,” you said. 

That’s when I fell apart completely and gave in.  You _loved_ me.

What did _everything_ mean to you?  Your blood?  Your life? Your mortality?  _Fuck_ , I would have taken all three.

The most horrible thing was that you suddenly ceased to be a person to me in that moment of desperate hunger.  You held my head on your shoulder and rubbed my back, and from the outside, this looked like tender humanity at it’s best – you were a broken boy comforting another wrecked soul.  But inside, I perceived you as a source of nourishment. 

When my teeth sank into the side of your throat, it wasn’t romantic.  It wasn’t sexy.  It wasn’t the blood lust fuck fest we dreamed it would be.  Your jugular was there and I lunged and I fed.

I’d never drank fresh human blood before, so I hadn’t known my humanity would shut down the way it had, as my instincts took over. My mind turned off as I drank from you.  I was an animal, going through involuntary motions in order to satiate a basic need. 

I want to say you tasted like heaven – like liquid sunshine, or some other bullshit.  But that would imply that I took the time to savor you, which I sadly did not.  I can’t remember the taste of you, only the way your blood felt running down my throat – hot, thick, and decadent.  I don’t recall a flavor, only a sensation – the feeling of being so utterly fucking satisfied that it rivaled orgasm.  It vaguely registered at the back of my mind that I was rock hard in my trousers, though I felt no pressing need to get off.

You went limp, and you felt heavy slumped against me.  The heft of you, so much greater than that of a rodent, reminded me that you were my lover and not my dinner.  And though I have become intimately familiar with how your weight and mass feel bearing down on my body, you felt different in my arms.

You were dead weight.

I panicked.  I gasped, and there was still so much thick blood coating my throat that it made a gurgling sound.  I called your name and sputtered, dappling your pale face with crimson. Your eyes were closed.  They say people’s eyes stay open when they die.  I laid you on the ground, careful not to crack your head on the pavement, and I pressed my ear to your chest.

Your heart was beating. It was barely a viable pitter-patter inside your chest.

I was met with a horrible dilemma – would I let you die, only to rise just like me, or would I call for help and possibly incriminate myself so that you might live.

I’m a selfish bastard and I almost let you Turn.  But I love you too much, and I couldn’t make that choice for you.

I rang up Bunce’s mobile.  She was there in a flash with a bottle of potion and an expression on her face so ireful that it practically convicted me of murder.

“He provoked me,” I explained, unable to meet Penelope’s eyes, “He wanted it.”  I knew it was a disgusting thing to say, even though it was true. 

“That doesn’t make it right,” she said, then clinically instructed me to lift up the back of your shoulders as she tilted your head backward and poured the potion into your open mouth.

I cradled your head in my palm as I waited for the potion to take effect. I told Bunce that I appreciated her help.

She replied with an indignant, breathy, “Fuck you, Baz.” I didn’t blame her. 

“Is he going to be alright?” I asked.

Before Bunce could answer, viscous, pink-tinged fluid oozed from the puncture wounds in your neck. The ghastly sight was startling enough to make me drop you as if you were toxic. 

“It can’t hurt you, idiot,” Bunce muttered contemptuously, “It’s your venom.  The potion is purging it from Simon’s body.”

That slimy substance had been secreted from my own mouth, and the thought of it made me want to retch. How awful would that have been, to nearly drain you of your blood, only to vomit it all over you?

I felt light-headed. I had to step away.  But as soon as I got up from the ground, the world began to spin.  And like a complete dork, I fainted.

 

I awoke the next morning, on the couch in your flat, with the headache of the century.  I called out to you, but it was Bunce who responded.

“Good.  You’re awake.” Without raising her voice, she told me to get out and to never come back.  She looked exhausted, her hair like tumbleweeds and the whites of her eyes blood shot. 

 _Blood._   The thought of it made me feel ill.  It was like thinking about having a pint the morning after an all night bender that had ended with my face in the toilet.

“Is he okay?” I asked her.

“I believe so.  He’s still asleep,” she answered wearily.  I could tell she hadn’t slept at all, and I felt sorry.

I thanked her again while avoiding her eyes as I got up to leave.

Her response was the same as it was last night.  “Fuck you, Baz.”  She sighed tiredly and showed me to the door.

I would have asked her to tell you that I was sorry, but I knew she’d just tell me to fuck off with more vigor.

 

You rang my mobile that afternoon.  I let it go to voice mail, but I didn’t listen to your message.  I knew that the sound of your voice would make this so much harder.  Separating myself from you to keep you safe was going to hurt no matter what you had to say to me.

I shut my phone off after your first text message came through.  _U OK? LMK ASAP. ILY._

You’re so bloody stupid, Snow. Not just because you can’t use your words, not even in text messages. You’re stupid because you keep cock-teasing Death like a greedy stripper.

I brought you precariously close to death or to vampirism, and you asked if _I_ was okay?  And furthermore, you still love me?  You stupid, stupid boy.  Don’t you know what you could have become?

Of course, you know. You are Simon Snow, and Danger had been your bedfellow long before I got my hands on you. You had defiantly held up two fingers when Death had tapped you on the shoulder.  And maybe you’re cocky now, since you’ve escaped more than once.

How many lives do you have left, Snow?

 

 

~//~ 

 

It has been more than a week since I turned off my phone. 

I’ve missed you like mad – the brash lilt of your voice, the warmth of your breath, the firmness of your touch, the taste of your kiss.  My body no longer feels the phantom memory of you inside me. I half-hope that you’ll come see me, but I know its best that we stay away from each other. 

I don’t trust myself not to bite your throat.  I don’t trust myself around people at all anymore.  I’ve been starving myself because I feel like I don’t deserve to feed. 

I’ve been languishing in despair in my bedroom at home, skiving off my university classes.  It is a miserable existence.  The things that had kept me going when I’d been kidnapped by numpties – the memory of blue eyes and copper curls, the fact that you were alive, and the reassurance that nobody could hurt you, not even me – are the things that make me feel like dying right now.

You are alive because I am not with you.  I am in agony without you. 

I am writing all of this down because you deserve to know why I left you. 

I left you because I love you, Simon Snow.

And I want you to know that I didn’t toss you aside like an empty bottle of fizzy lemonade after nearly drinking you dry.  I’m not off with someone else.  Circe knows you think I’m some sort of wanton slut, and now I regret not correcting that false notion you somehow got into your head.  Though if you’ve read this far, that notion should have been corrected.

I’ve only ever been yours.

 

 

SIMON

 

 

I’m not as articulate as you are when I speak, but I’m not half bad when I take the time to write down my words.  I’m writing them now in your journal.  I know you’d never call this notebook a journal – you’d never admit to being sentimental enough to keep one, but that’s what this is.  It doesn’t matter that it’s written directly to me like a letter, it’s still a bloody journal.

Since you did address your words to me, it is only fair that I get to address you now and write in my defense.

For the record, you are an arsehole, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.  And though you put the word  _stupid_ next to my name several times, and twice in one sentence, you, my love, are stupider than stupid.

I gave you explicit affirmative consent, and it flew over your perfectly coiffed head.

“I want to give you everything.”

Those are the words I spoke. Those are the words you remembered well enough to write in your notebook.  Those are the words you somehow forgot completely when you decided to lock yourself in your family’s house, shut off your mobile, starve yourself, and become Emo Vampire Extraordinaire.

Why did you take full blame for drinking my blood and torture yourself about it, after outlining in disturbing (and incidentally super hot) detail all the ways I’ve been seducing you to do it?  You weren’t victim blaming.  I’m not a victim.  I wanted it. 

I want it still.

Had you stuck around after to talk to me, instead of deviating from your usual by listening to Penelope when she told you to leave, I would have assured you that I was fine.  I was better than fine.  I was fucking brilliant.

You said in your journal that you once imagined that biting me would feel like fucking me for the first time.  Well, guess what, Baz?  IT DID. The moment that your teeth punctured my skin, your venom entered me like heavenly fire, and it was like losing my virginity to you all over again. 

Yeah, I was a virgin too when I took your virginity.  I never had sex with Agatha, and you would know that if you hadn’t been such a jealous prick and just ASKED.  Although, not gonna lie, it’s hot when you’re jealous.

Anyway, back to your teeth…

I won’t deny that it hurt when you bit me.  You essentially stabbed me in the neck.  And like that initial burning pressure I felt when you first gifted me with your massive cock, it was momentary discomfort followed by a distinctly pleasing sort of intense pressure – like a firm massage on an erogenous zone.

I felt your jaw lock onto me and it was strangely inhuman - not animal, but mechanical.  For a moment, I panicked.  The metallic tang of fear was on my tongue, and once I tasted that adrenaline, I could feel it coursing up my spine with an electric thrill. I was scared as hell, but somehow hard as fuck.  I felt the full breadth of your physical power.

To be at the complete mercy of that power, _shit_ , it was more humbling and awe-inspiring than being at the business end of your wand, and we both know what a capable wizard you are. 

This is exactly what I feel when you’re fucking me – I am vulnerable and yet safe, I am yours and yours alone, I will never stop needing you, I will want you forever, I _fucking love you_ like mad.  I want you to make me feel this way, again and again, be it at the mercy of your cock, or at the point of your fangs, or at the destructive end of your wrath.

 

As you suctioned blood from my jugular vein, I became light-headed from the sudden drop in blood pressure to my brain.  I didn’t feel like I was fainting; I felt like I was in a post-orgasmic haze. I wanted to fall asleep in your arms, the way that I do after you make me come.

When I passed out, I don’t believe I was dying.  I’m quite sure I was just asleep.  You hadn’t nearly killed me.  You panicked over nothing.  Penny freaked out for no reason.  The potion to expel the venom wasn’t a bad idea, but not necessary.

Though, to know that the effect of the potion inadvertently made you faint like the drama queen that you are – that was totally worth the trouble.

 

When I woke up the next day, it was some time in the afternoon.  I didn’t wake up feeling sick, I felt content.  I felt like I’d just spent the night with you, fucking until dawn. Yeah, I was tired and a bit sore. But I was only slightly more worn out than after a marathon romp in the sheets.  I wasn’t near death, like you imagined.

I rolled over in bed, expecting to find you next to me, hoping to nuzzle my face into your cheek and tangle my limbs around yours like I always do.  When you weren’t there, I felt my heart shrink a little bit.  It’s unlike you to fuck and dash, unless I catch you between university classes and we sneak in a quickie.  Not that we actually fucked that night, but the intimacy we shared was just as deep.

When Penny told me that you spent the night on the couch and then left, it hurt just a little.  I didn’t understand why you were distancing yourself.  By the time you were ignoring my numerous voice and text messages, my heart was properly broken.

Just so you know, I use truncated text speak because I’m too impatient to type out entire words, not because I’m stupid.

If you haven’t listened to my voice notes or read my text messages, let me save you the trouble of doing so and summarize them:  I love you. Talk to me.  Stop being an idiot.

 

When you read this, you will have woken up to find that someone has broken into your house, snuck into your room while you were asleep, found a notebook beside you on the bed in the spot where I should be, and has placed the journal on your desk, open to this page.

I’m in the guestroom, arsehole.  Find me when you’re done reading, but only if you’re done being ridiculous. I know you haven’t fed properly and I just happen to have brought a phial of anti-venom.

Did I mention that I’ll probably be naked by the time you get to this sentence?

Maybe I’ll even be proper horny by the time you get to this one.

Perhaps I’ll have my cock in my hand when you read this one, heavy and ready and waiting for you.

Done being stupid yet?

 

 

BAZ

 

 

I’m writing this for you, Simon, in case you wake up and can’t remember what transpired.  I’m writing this for you, to remind you who you are and what you are, in case you’ve forgotten by the time you read this. 

I honestly don’t know what you’ll feel or what you’ll think when you finally do wake up.  I don’t even know if you’ll still love me.

Whatever we feel for each other going forward, never forget that this happened because I love you. This happened because you love me. That being said, I will not blame you if you grow to spite me.

 

I didn’t find you in my guest room, wearing nothing but a hard-on and a smug grin.

I wasn’t terribly disappointed.  I just wanted to see you – to know that you were real and alive and irreverent as ever – to put my arms around you and reacquaint myself with the smell of you, the shape of you.  I wanted to know that you were still mine.

As I said, you weren’t naked when I found you.  You were sitting on the guest bed like an uncultured vagabond, with your trainers on and your feet on the duvet.  I made a mental note to myself to remind you of your manners at a later date.  This is your reminder.

You were fiddling with your mobile when I walked in the room.  You glanced up and nonchalantly said, “Hey,” as if I hadn’t recently tried to break up with you after having bitten you.

I sat down on the bed next to you and said, “You are a liar, Simon Snow.”  I rested my head on your shoulder and sighed.  I was too exhausted to effectively express how pleased I was to see you.  My hand found yours, and you took it without hesitation.

“Did you only come because I said I was naked and horny?” you asked.

“I only ever come when you’re naked and horny,” I joked.

“Not true.  You come when I’m not with you, wanker,” you said.

“I didn’t this time,” I admitted.  I had been too depressed to even think about getting off while we were apart.

You quietly told me that you missed me, and from the slight crack of your voice, I could feel just how much.  I could feel that I had I hurt you more when I left you, than when I broke your skin.  There was a tight feeling in my chest.  I told you that I was sorry.  It was the first time during this entire ordeal that I’d said it out loud, either to you or to myself.

You told me that you were sorry too.  You admitted that you’ve always been curious about what would happen if I fed from you. You thought it would be hot.  But you’d been too ashamed to talk about it with me.  You confessed that you knew what you were doing the night I bit you. 

I had no desire to raise a finger in the air to self-righteously declare that I’d been right. I only wanted you.

Forgiveness went unspoken, exchanged upon a kiss.  You tasted like cinnamon chewing gum and cigarettes, and I wondered if you’d been smoking to remind yourself of the flavor of my kiss. 

 

It took only a bit of time, and very little effort on your part, to get me to the point where I was lying naked on my back, staring up at you transfixed, and slowly taking every devastating inch of your cock.  You already had me at _hey_.

You buried yourself inside of me to the hilt, and with that sly drawl of yours, you asked, “D’you like that?” Your smirk told me that you knew I did.

“ _Fuck yeah_.”  The sound that came out of my mouth was half way between a whine and a whisper - the declaration of my abject surrender.  I could feel my vampire teeth sliding out of their sheathes.

You began to slowly rock your hips, delicately and shallowly.  “You want it like that?” you asked, and from the way you quirked your brow, I knew you were aware of how cruelly you were teasing me.

“Harder,” I pleaded. I took your hand from my hip and told you to touch me.  You knew exactly where.

The pace of your fist sliding along my spit-slicked erection increased gradually with the driving rhythm of your cock.  You were wrecking me completely, and I loved every second of it.  I wanted it to go on forever.  I wasn’t ready to lose this connection with you.

“Slow down, I’m close,” I said.

You sweetly obliged. You seemed to savor the slow glide as much as I did. “I want to die, just like this,” you said breathlessly.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I warned.  I was half joking.

You smiled and tenderly swept the fringe of my hair from my sweat-dampened forehead. “I’m never careful. It’s why you love me.” 

It is the absolute truth.

You brushed your thumb across my lips and carelessly let the tip of my tooth scrape your skin. Blood seeped out from the shallow cut, like a crimson wisp of down feathers unfurling, following the grooves of your fingerprint.  I couldn’t see it with my eyes, but I could sense it with my entire being.  The carnal smell of iron and brine seduced a painful upwelling of hunger from deep in my gut.

“Taste me,” you whispered, beseeching me with you words and with your eyes.  “I want to feel your teeth again.”

You offered the underside of your wrist to me, and it took all of my will to refrain from tearing into you like a wild animal.  I fixated on blue eyes and copper curls and reminded myself that I love you. My teeth sank easily into your flesh, with the clinical precision of a syringe.  I felt a gentle pop as I opened your vein, decanting hot blood into my mouth.

_I love you, Simon Snow.  I love you, Simon Snow.  I love you, Simon Snow._

This was my mantra to keep me grounded in my humanity, to prevent my demonic instincts from taking over. I spoke the words in my head as my body was awash in ecstasy, following the quickening cadence of your heartbeat and the rhythm of your stroke and thrust.

I felt your fingers gliding my foreskin over the head of my cock and back down again as I drank decadently from you and swallowed lustfully.  I let out a guttural growl from my throat.  You echoed the sound when you thrust your cock into me and lingered deep inside. I felt divine pressure against my prostate.

I felt your cock pulsing inside of me.  I watched your pretty mouth form a lovely circle of bliss as you moaned.  You filled me with your hot seed and your hot blood and I was losing hold of my mantra and my control. 

You pulled away suddenly, huffing breathlessly in post-orgasmic exhaustion.  I managed to unclench my jaw to free your wrist. Blood was streaming down your arm and semen was dripping from your cock.  You practically fell on top of me, trapping me beneath you.  I assumed you were close to passing out.

You moved like molasses – slow and drunk on my venom.  You straddled me at the waist, weakly propped your body up on your forearms, and kissed my blood-smeared mouth.

“Fuck me,” you said, purring against my mouth, lapping at the blood on my lips.  There was love in your eyes and madness on your tongue.

You reached back, whipped your tail aside, and took my cock in your hand.  Your palm was slick and warm as you stroked me, and I realized that it was coated in the blood that was still draining from the puncture wounds on your wrist. 

It should have revolted me - the thought of using blood, _your_ blood, as lube.  But it gave me a fiendish delight.  I was already drunk on the sweet, metallic taste of you, and slipping into that blood-haze I was trying so hard to avoid.

You angled your hips and poised the tip of my cock at your entrance.  I pressed into you anxiously and you gave the sweetest little whimper.

_I love you, Simon Snow.  I love you, Simon Snow.  I love you, Simon Snow._

I lost sight of those blue eyes and copper curls.  I lost myself in you.  I felt you falling all around me, closing in on me, wrapping me up tightly in the heat of your body, enveloping me in your love and your scent and your sweat and your blood, and _fuck…_

I hadn’t realized that I’d sunk my fangs into the side of your neck until I was nearly choking on the rush of blood as it filled my throat. Somewhere in the feeding frenzy, I shot my load inside of you.  I faintly registered my orgasm.  I only know it happened because the evidence of it seeped down your thighs in the aftermath.

When I came back to myself, I was literally trapped underneath your dead weight.  But I’d learned from the last time that this was not cause for panic.  I wiggled inelegantly to free myself from between you and the sticky sheets, leaving you face down on the bed.  I turned your face to the side so that you could breathe.  Your face was quite literally a bloody mess.

You were staring at me, unblinking and vacant.  I remembered that people meet Death with their eyes open.

Dread washed over me, chasing away the warm feeling that your blood had imparted, leaving me startled and cold.  I shook you and shouted your name, but you remained unresponsive.

I reached for the glass phial of anti-venom on the bedside table too hastily, and fumbled the bottle. It crashed upon the tiled floor and evaporated into a puff of mist.

_Fuck.  Me._

I dialed Bunce’s mobile using your phone.

“I’m in Minnesota, Simon. What do you want?”  _Shit_. Bunce wasn’t even in the country.

“I need to know where to get anti-venom.”  I didn’t even try to disguise myself as you.

“Baz?  Is that you?  What the hell have you done?  Put Simon on the phone.”

“Tell me where!” I demanded.

“McAllister’s Apothecary on Bank Street, London.  Nicks and Slick, what have you done to him, Baz?”

I ended the call and threw on some clothes.  I was still sticky with blood and semen congealing on my skin.  I ran to the east wing of the house, catching unwanted attention from my stepmother.

“What in Merlin’s name have you been up to in _my_ house, Tyrannus?” Daphne asked.

“This isn’t your house,” I muttered.

Daphne wouldn’t understand. Fiona might.  My aunt was always good about turning a blind eye to my evil ways.

I didn’t want to leave you alone in the house, so I instructed Fiona to stay with you and to do everything in her power to revive you while I took the Jaguar into London. I sped down the M1 so fast, I’m surprised the highway patrol hadn’t stopped me.  Perhaps my father had strengthened the anti-Normal-detection spells on the car.

I was already too far away when I realized I’d left my mobile at the house.

It was nearly dawn when I finally returned, crashing into the guest room with the anti-venom.  I nearly had to blow somebody for the bottle.

What I found upon opening the door was not what I had expected.

“Hey,” you greeted me casually.

But this scene was hardly casual.

You were sitting up in bed with the bloodstained sheets covering your lower half.  My aunt lay limply on top of the sheets, draped across you. The front of her black shirt had a dark spot spreading from the collar. 

You grinned at me.  Your smile was like a gash, cut across your face with the Sword of Mages. And I was more afraid of you than ever.

Because this time, it wasn’t your blood.  It was Fiona’s. 


End file.
